Jack, I Am

Chapter 1

September 11, 1889

I am leaving my story with the only person who has been a friend, Spicer. I have cleansed my demons, but do not advise the same method for anyone else. I go now to whatever fate awaits me.

If anyone should read this journal, they must surely think me mad to do the things I have done. There is no denying I have murdered, and yet feel nothing of remorse or sadness at my actions.

Others will wonder, after I tell them my story, at their own lives, and how the ever-changing events of that life, have made them what they are today. Do I use my experience as the reason for what I have done? There is only one person to blame for what happened, but in the hell that is the East End of London could it have been any other way? It was not always as it is now. When I was a boy, it seemed the air was cleaner; the streets were less crowded, and bleak. I remember people walking with smiles on their faces, and if you listened just right, laughter would waft through the air. This is how I shall remember my youth.

Now the sky is always dark with smoke. The streets are dirty, hardly a smile to be seen. People crowding the pavement, the noise of their breathing hurts my ears. The life seems to have been sucked from their very bones. More and more whores are crowding the corners and doorways. Their dirty laughs and liquored breaths are fouling the very air the rest of us need to live.

I thought my mother dead while I was at sea, but I saw her face on every one of those vile hags who stood on the streets each day and night. I sought to rid myself of her evil memory, and all who are like her. There is just not enough time for me to remove all of them. The police are closing in on me. They do not care if the walking garbage is sliced. There is only good and evil here; if a trollop has to be killed to remove the evil, then so be it.

You shall know my true name, but it is not one you will recognize. The papers have pointed fingers at many people; the coppers chase many suspects, and always they have been wrong. The great Scotland Yard is no better than using an eel to open a crate. I am privy to their methods, what they have found in the way of evidence, and still they cannot see the nose on their own faces.

Sincerely,

Jack, I am.

Fog chokes the night covered streets, swirling like the slimy hand of death searching for a victim. The street lamps anaemic glow wavers with the mist and the smell of coal smoke and sewage increases the oppressive sense of dread in the darkness.

Through this murk, a shadow in the shape of a man floats soundlessly. It moves quickly, only stopping or slowing to gaze up at buildings as it passes.

There are no other living things on the streets, save the occasional rat, scurrying to find a hole to hide in for the night. There are sounds mixed with the fog; church bells, horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles, their carriages rumbling behind them, and even a random boat whistle from the river. The noises come and go carried in the fog like the chains of a convict.

The shadow man moves with a certainty which belies the dense curtain around him. Stopping finally at a single door, metal strikes metal as a key enters the lock, and it opens allowing him to drift inside. A moment later, a match is struck, and held to a candle wick. It sputters to life, illuminating the face above it.

The man is in his late twenties, a thin moustache curled up at the ends, bright blue eyes over a pleasant face, although currently sweating profusely.

Blowing out the match, he hangs his wool coat on a hook by the door, sits on the chair beside the table, and stares into the flame. Hands clasped together between his knees, as he gently rocks back and forth; soft clouds forming from his breath.

Suddenly, as if feeling a sting in one of them, he pulls both hands up before his face, and begins to examine them in the weak light of the candle. They are calloused and large, with long thick fingers. The nails are dirty and chipped; several healing cuts on the knuckles, but otherwise they are clean.

His eyes brighten; the lips slowly pull into a grin. The even white teeth begin to show until finally, his head rocks back in a silent laugh.

After a moment, his body relaxes. With both hands flat on the table, he stares at the candle once more. A shiver runs from head to foot, forcing him toward the bed to fetch a blanket for his shoulders. Seated once more at the table, he lays his hands on the notebook at the base of the candle, and pulls it open to the first page. The writing is an example of exemplary calligraphy - each letter flawless, but the quality of the words does not match the appearance of the man who reads them. They are neat, evenly spaced, and the lines perfectly straight across the page formal and aristocratic. The man reading them appears working class, poorly educated at best, dishevelled. He reads the written words with intent, and occasionally a deep breath obscures the pages, with its vapour. Upon finishing a page, the reader carefully but angrily, tears it from the notebook. With precision, he lays the torn pages in a perfect pile beside the candle base, on the table.

Having read all there is to read in the notebook, he sits back and stares into the darkness of his room, appearing to be lost in a trance. His eyes blink after a few moments; his great hands gently reach for the ink bottle, warming it a while before turning off the lid, and picking up the pen. He dips the nib into the bottle, moves it over the clean page, and begins to write...

February 24, 1888

I have stabbed someone this night. Perhaps an older woman, I could not tell at first in the dark. I do not drink, and yet there is in my mind, no memory of how I arrived at her house or yard, until she stood before me. The clasp knife in my hand, I saw the flash of steel in the glow from her lantern, as the blade slashed toward her. Has my knife possessed me? To my mind’s eye, she seemed to be the image of my mother or at least the way she looked when I last saw her. She was shouting, and throwing sticks at me, calling me lazy and worthless. The screeching became worse as I neared her, until she struck my face.

The knife sang to me from my pocket the moment she appeared at her door. Before I stepped close enough for her to slap my face, the blade was thumping in my pocket like a beating heart. When the old woman struck me, the sight in my eyes became clear; I could see my mother’s face before me. The fact that I stabbed her in the throat and killed her, I know is wrong, but at once it is also a source of great pleasure. My whole body is tingling and alive as it has never been before. I may have finally cut that whore from my life. My mother, who bore me, then turned on me because I was not perfect in her eyes. She would beat me for being late, for being dirty, for being in the same room with her and those men of hers. She stood me naked before them. Telling them to look at what my father left her to deal with. I do not know what she meant by that, but the men would always laugh. My father was a decent man who gave us what he could; at least he treated me kindly.

No this is wrong; I will not allow the devil to tempt me in this way. I would have happily killed my mother if she had not died before I had the chance. She is responsible for the way life has led me and to the end of my days she will be the one I blame.

Chapter 2

John dresses the next morning in the cold dark room, only dreary light from the street lamp filtering through the grimy window glass to see his clothes. If there had been enough illumination, he would have seen his breath in the air. Pulling on leather boots and warm, but aging wool coat, he leaves the room and steps onto the pavement. A skiff of snow has fallen in the night; enough to cover the grimy streets like a blanket of white linen. Carriage tracks, and hoof prints have marred the smooth new surface of the street. The grey brown buildings loom over him, like giants reaching into the still dark sky. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, John begins the long walk to work; the chill air quickly numbs his face and ears. He takes a deep breath and walks faster.

All day at Billingsgate market, standing in the open-air cleaning fish, his hands are constantly cold and wet, making it difficult to hold the knife. There is a constant roar of voices from the sellers hawking the catch. His conversation with the other workers is monosyllabic, because he has an occasional lisp which makes him very reluctant to speak.

At first sight, John could be mistaken for any other man, although he is a few inches taller, and more muscular than most. His years as a porter, have given him broad shoulders over a V-shaped body. Sporting a full head of wavy light brown hair, with a winning smile under his bright blue eyes, and a stylish thin moustache which curls up at the ends; he is handsome.

A bell clangs to signal the end of the workday. John leaves the market walking toward the Britannia Pub, near Fashion and Commercial Streets, for supper. He’s interested in good tasting food, but it has to be cheap. Having been to many public houses, he has no favourites; mostly, he over-hears someone talking about a pub and tries it for himself. Seeing an empty table by the bar, he sits down. The landlord approaches and asks for his order.

What have you got on tonight? John asks, speaking slowly and clearly.

For a fine gentleman such as you, we have an excellent pot pie. The landlord snorts. Most patrons order, and accept what he brings them. Would your lordship like anything to drink?

John ignores the slur and orders the food, but declines the drink, then looks about the room while waiting. Like most pubs, it is the front room of a house. Tables and benches are clustered about the room, with a small bar to one side. A doorway leads into the back of the house, where the kitchen and storage would be found. The front room is bare plank walls, and beams covered in white-wash, with knick-knacks, and pictures hanging everywhere. The chairs and tables are rough-hewn planks, thick with spilled liquids, and ground in food. The room is crowded with people laughing or talking. The laughing ones are mostly women sitting on the laps of male patrons.

The landlord brings a plate of food, and drops it on the table. In the middle of the dish is a large lump of brown pastry covered in gravy. Underneath the pastry are a few vegetables - a piece of potato and some peas, and what could be any kind of meat. The pub is dimly lit, making it difficult to distinguish between meat and vegetable. Too hungry to care, he plunges the fork into the steaming lump of food. He finishes the meal, and is about to leave, when a hand pushes down on his shoulder.

John’s head snaps around in anger, looking for the owner of the hand. He sees an older woman standing beside him, smiling. Her hair is pulled back, and tucked under a dark bonnet. Her face is clean, but she is missing a tooth near the front of her mouth; the other visible ones are yellowed, and grey. Her dress is black, while her knitted shawl is a similar grey to her teeth. He sees all of this in slow motion, as her face nears the side of his head, feeling her breath on his ear.

My name is Elizabeth, and I will pleasure your tackle for a few pennies, she whispers in his ear.

The thought of this hag being near him; never mind having her touch his body sours his supper. She’s old enough to be his mother. His stomach clenches with fear at the thought of his mother. Anger fuelled by years of abuse, quickly replaces the fear. Turning to more fully look at the woman, he says,

You are dead to me, and yet here you stand. Leave me alone or force me to kill you until you stay dead. He is slowly rising from the table, as he speaks, until he looks down at the horrified and confused woman. She sees the evil glint in his eyes, and dashes out the door, followed by hoots, and jeers from the crowd. John pays for his meal and leaves quietly, with a smile on his face.

Once inside his room, after wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, he lights the candle, and holds the ink bottle to warm it before writing in the journal. His hands shake, as he cradles the small bottle of ink, more from anger at being touched by a doxie, than from the cold. It takes a few minutes to regain control of his jangled nerves, before he is able to write.

February 26, 1888

Accosted today by some old whore who appeared to me like my mother; she smelled as if dead, so she must have been my mother. The vile thing was so disgusting as to make me gag. WHORES! They seem to achieve some ulterior pleasure from tormenting normal men as they pass. My mother did the same with me. I do not see anything enticing or alluring about them. Most are old and smell old, their diddeys sag, and the clothes they wear are dirty. It is becoming desperate, and I pray each Sunday when I attend church, that some action will be taken soon. I have no desires which I cannot satisfy with my hands. I do not drink, and find it difficult to understand these loose women, and their need for the bottle. Nothing in the papers about the woman I killed. Maybe she wasn’t worth the bother. The minister would call it staring into the abyss, but I think it is wonderful, and since nobody seems to care, I might not be caught should I do it again.

Most of what I know is thanks to the Minister at St. Botolph’s. He taught me to read, write and helped rid me of my lisp. It still returns oft times when I am around women – good women, but only then.

I think back, and remember I have been supporting myself my entire life. I know the commandments forbid stealing, but it was the only way to buy food for me, and that wretched mother of mine. After I became a cabin boy, she must have taken to her back more often; since I could finally keep all the money for myself. She died, and I came back to be a porter, but recently my back gave out. It was my good fortune they made me a fish filleter.

Chapter 3

John took to the task of fish filleter quickly; using the skills he learned on-board ship. He likes filleting, because he’s good at it, but mostly because it’s easy work. Most of the other men around him work at half his speed, only one is quicker. An old Chinaman, with a lengthy white beard, and long pigtail down his back, works at a table one row in front of John, but at the far right hand end of that bench. Both men slash and toss fish all day, but the oriental always finishes ahead. He would be cleaning knives and the table, while others are still hours away from finishing their day.

This naturally causes some discussions over beer by the slower workers. They feel the old man is cheating somehow or has a smaller quota. All sorts of wild speculations abound around how the scrawny old bloke can work so fast. John is not one of those disgruntled men. He’s been watching the oriental for weeks, trying to learn what he does differently. Being too far apart to see clearly, John has made up his mind to approach the old man one afternoon, and inquire about a lesson or just find out the secret. He wants to be the fastest filleter, by any means necessary.

As he leaves his station, two other men approach the Chinaman from different sides. They take turns punching him in the stomach, while holding his pigtailed hair. The old man does nothing to defend himself, even though he is still holding his knife. Other men rush in to stop the beating, and John joins them. The two attackers are grabbed, and hauled back. John sees the oriental slump to the ground. Kneeling beside his head, while keeping an eye on the two men; he lays his coat over the oriental’s chest for warmth. There is no kindness or compassion in the act; he knows from experience, it is simply the right thing to do.

The Chinaman opens his eyes, and looks up at John. Smiling, he speaks something which sounds like ‘she walks down under the water’. This makes no sense so John simply smiles back. A crowd has gathered, as the Boss finally arrives. John takes back his coat while helping the old man to stand, and turns to leave; a hand on his arm stops him.

The Boss is chewing the other two men new arseholes, and the oriental is jabbering, while making motions with his hands for John to follow. Believing the old man may want to give him a reward, he takes him by the arm, and they leave the market. Slowly at first, but with greater speed the further they walk, the old man leads the way to Whites Row, where he enters a space between two buildings, and out into the courtyard beyond. The distance between the brick walls is barely wide enough for John to squeeze through, with his face scraping on one side, and the back of his head on the other.

The courtyard is surrounded on all sides by four-story blank walled buildings, as if the builders forgot to finish the centre bit. Not much light reaches the ground leaving nothing but hard-packed dirt. There are woven reed mats placed along one side of the yard, under hammocks slung between poles. Several women and younger men, all versions of the old man, are gathered around a single cooking fire in the centre of the yard. They are dressed in English garb, trousers and coats or dresses for the women. All of them have the same pigtail as the old man, and all of the men are wearing the same simple cap. The single difference is their age. Their eyes turn, as the other man prattles away, making gestures toward John.

Motioning for him to sit next to the fire, the old man holds out a small bowl, and gestures to drink. A dark liquid which smells like tea is inside the bowl, and after a tentative sip, he smiles beginning to accept their hospitality.

Now that you have had your tea, the old man begins speaking in perfect English. Let me introduce my family, and myself. His mouth hanging open, John barely hears anything the man says, until the words ‘Quan Lee’ are spoken. Quickly shaking his head to clear away his surprise, John grasps the preferred hand, and grins weakly at the rest of the people. When he looks again at the old man, John can only mutter, You speak English.

Lee chuckles softly. I have been here many years. You are wondering why I do not use English when working. He pauses and strokes the beard, while looking up at the sky. It pleases me to hear others speaking about me when they believe I do not understand. I know they think I am an ignorant Chinaman, and I hear many things because of it.

Why didn’t ya try to defend yourself against those two in the market, John suddenly demands. The old man’s face grows solemn as he stares down at the fire for several moments.

It is not a fair fight if I defend myself, he finally replies. A hard steely expression comes into the older man’s eyes, which takes twenty years out of the wrinkles on his face.

There were two o’ them, and ya had your knife, how is that not a fair fight? Quan simply stands, and motions for John to do the same. As soon as he is straight, there is a stinging sensation on his left cheek, and before another second passes, the same happens on his right cheek. John begins to move his right hand toward his face, but immediately finds himself on his back at the older man’s feet. Quan holds his right arm straight, places his foot on John’s throat, and twists his wrist backwards, all at the same moment. In this position, the more he struggles, the harder it becomes to breathe; so he quits, and lies still on the ground, while Quan smiles. When John relaxes, Mr. Quan helps him to his feet and bows.

At first, anger consumes his mind at being treated in such a fashion, but then it quickly passes. Now, it is clear why the fight would not have been fair. He remembers stories of the oriental fighting arts from sailors returning from China and Japan. Before him is someone with knowledge of those arts, who might be willing to impart some of that wisdom. John smiles, in a way which he thinks might be correct for this occasion, and bows in the same fashion as Mr. Quan. When he looks again at the older man, the steely look has been replaced with a warm smile, and an extended hand of friendship.

Why did you come to my aid at the market?

I didn’t really. I was on my way to determine how ya work so fast. There has to be a secret, and I want to know what it is.

There are many ways to work faster, but I believe you need to hold the knife like this. Lee shows him how to hold the knife differently, using more of the elbow to move it quickly and easily.

Thank ya, I’ll try this tomorrow. What about showing me some of those fighting arts? Quan Lee stares over the fire at John, as if making a decision.

The need to fight in my culture is considered a last resort. As you saw today, we will only use our skill when there is no other choice. He stares into the fire for a moment. I will teach you, but simple lessons at first until you are ready for more.

John beams widely as they all eat a hearty meal of rice and vegetables. It is after dark, and turning cold when he leaves the courtyard, with the fire dying down. The rest of the family has already gone to bed for the night.

John awakes to the last chime of the church bells, as they ring out four o’clock. He does not need to get dressed, having slept in his clothes, wrapped tightly in a blanket, to stay warm. Shaving his reflected face in a small hand-held mirror, by the flickering light from a candle, he carefully pulls the blade across the stubble. There is no water. Even if there was, it would have been frozen, so every pull of the sharp razor is risking a serious wound. He finishes shaving without incident, and steps outside his door.

After working all day, he makes his way toward a public house on Gun Street which two of the porters were talking about. They heaped a great deal of praise on the quality and quantity of the food and drink. John is always looking for a good place to eat.

Walking along the pavement of Fenchurch Street, there are few people about at this time of day. He keeps his eyes on the ground, a self-conscious habit from early childhood. His mother would beat him if he made eye contact with her. Now he feels more comfortable looking at the ground.

John is nearing Aldgate, when a trollop steps out of a doorway in front of him. She lifts her skirts and says, three pennies, and you can have everything you see, deary! Startled, at first his eyes betray him, going from the woman’s face to the space between her legs in an instant, and she laughs.

He hears the knife in his pocket begin to sing, his work knives wrapped in the leather apron, join the chorus. He forces the sound from his mind. His knees start to tremble, and his hands are shaking with rage, but manages to keep his voice steady as he says to the woman,

Keep your filthy old hat covered woman, and leave me alone.

Awe what’s the matter deary, three pennies too much. There's other ways to please a man such as yaself. Her voice is softer, as she puts her hand on the front of his trousers. She is younger than most, John can see from her face. There is no smell of body odour or ale from her. The skin on her face is smooth, creased only by a small grin. Feeling her fingers begin to work the buttons loose, the reaction of his prick causes a brief moment of desire for the woman, and the release which she could give him. Anger at these thoughts flares in his mind, forcing him to step back. His fist punches into her face; knocking the woman off her feet and backward into an alley. Looking about to see if anyone is nearby, John pulls her by the shoulders, further into the dark, before stepping over the unconscious woman to continue toward the pub.

Entering the nearly empty Bell, he takes a table in the corner near the door to the back rooms.